


I'm No Stranger To Misbehavior

by brynnmck



Category: Canadian Actor RPF, Canadian Actor RPF (C6D), Headstones (Band), Music RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-13
Updated: 2011-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-04 19:12:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brynnmck/pseuds/brynnmck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> Someday he figures they'll get used to it, but for now…. Lead guitarist.  Lead singer. They've got fucking </i>groupies<i>. The whole thing feels inevitable and ridiculous, like tumblers clicking into place on the door to some crazy funhouse; Trent still has to swallow something damn close to a giggle when he thinks of it.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm No Stranger To Misbehavior

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Belmanoir for helping me scrape the dust off this story and figure out what it was actually about. <3

"Okay, how about this?" Trent asks, putting the words on the page in front of him to the melody that's teasing his brain: _"It's just a constant push, can't do it but I know I should, I'm talking with my teeth clenched…"_

Hugh's nodding before he's even done with the last few syllables. "Yeah, yeah, that's good, that works. And then—"

"Back to the first one," Trent says, in unison with Hugh, and taps his pen triumphantly on the table. It's a fucking depressing song, as these things go, a slow, somber rumination that'll get everyone gulping moodily from their beers when they do it live, but all that's buried for now under the charge of creation. 

Hugh had rambled off the lyrics a few days ago, looking out the window of his apartment while Trent sat at the computer and typed. And Trent figures that's part of his responsibility in this whole deal: keeping Hugh's stream of consciousness from flooding. So whether that means fingers on a computer keyboard—taking the weird shit that Hugh sees when he stares out into nothing and lets his brain twist and unspool, taking that and making it concrete, making it black and white on the page—or fingers on a fretboard—grounding Hugh's growls in rhythm and riffs—this is how it works. This is how _they_ work, and they're both a little high with it, sitting in their favorite side room of their favorite bar with their legs splayed and their backs against the wall and not even really bothering to glare at the people who poke their heads in. They all get the message anyway: _private property, no trespassing_.

"Steve Miller Band," says Hugh as soon as the music on the jukebox changes, and he doesn't seem to care much that he's just interrupted himself in the middle of a sentence.

"Easy," Trent scoffs. "My grandmother would've known that."

"Your grandmother is a wise and wonderful woman, and I still get a point, and you're still a sorry fuck." Hugh plants a finger on one of the pennies in the pile at the edge of the table, slides it over to his side. His motor skills are looking pretty good, all things considered.

As for Trent, he's had enough to drink that everything's gone just the slightest bit liquid around the edges. He watches the penny slide, letting himself get idly distracted by the shape of Hugh's fingers and the dull glint of the overhead lights off his ridiculous number of rings. When he looks back up, Hugh's watching him, one side of his mouth starting to curve and a look in his eyes that—

"No," Trent says reflexively.

Hugh breaks into a grin. "What?"

"Hugh—"

"C'mon." Hugh bumps Trent's foot with his under the table.

" _That's_ your pickup line?" Trent snorts. "The groupies are spoiling you, man."

"Hey, I'm not the one taking home a different girl after every gig. All you gotta do is sit there in a corner and they come running," Hugh muses, shaking his head. "I can't believe that shy, sensitive bullshit actually _works_."

"It's not every gig. And I _am_ shy!" Trent protests. Now he's grinning, too, and he waits a couple of beats, then lifts one shoulder. "I can't help it if it works."

"Uh-huh." Hugh leans back in his chair, an easy sprawl. "Fuckin' lead guitarists, man. What the _fuck_?"

Trent grins wider, and Hugh mirrors him. Someday he figures they'll get used to it, but for now…. Lead guitarist. Lead singer. They've got fucking _groupies_. The whole thing feels inevitable and ridiculous, like tumblers clicking into place on the door to some crazy funhouse; Trent still has to swallow something damn close to a giggle when he thinks of it.

And with that rush spiraling through his veins, when Hugh stands up, puts one hand on Trent's shoulder, leans down and murmurs, "Come on," into his ear in a tone that somehow manages to be half-pleading and half-commanding… Trent can't help but abandon the stack of pennies and the rest of his beer and get up to follow him without another word.

There's a washroom downstairs, which he and Hugh have put to good use more often than Trent really cares to admit; at least it has stalls and running water, making it two up on the Bathurst streetcar, which they've also attempted once or twice in desperation and inebriation. But when they get to the landing between one set of stairs and the next, Hugh stops so suddenly that Trent stumbles into him.

"Hey!" Trent objects. He'd been watching the curve of Hugh's ear, having a nice little fantasy about having it between his teeth, and now all he can think about is how his toe is throbbing from banging into Hugh's stupid biker boots. "What the fuck?"

"This the fuck." Hugh crowds him against the wall near the corner, eyes dark and mouth curved, somewhere between mischief and danger.

Heat flashes from Trent's belly up to his throat. "Hugh…." He glances up, past Hugh's shoulder; there's a window in the door they just came through, but the angle's pretty high, and it's maybe a dozen steps up. And they're a little early yet for the night rush, but still—

"Trent," Hugh singsongs back, teasing; he bumps his hips against Trent's, and there's so much unguarded affection on his face that Trent can feel himself starting the familiar slide from hesitation into anticipation. "You know you love it," Hugh murmurs, obviously sensing the atmospheric change. He rubs his stubbly chin against Trent's neck, and as he shifts his weight, his foot knocks into Trent's toe again.

"Ow, that's _twice_ ," Trent complains, mostly for show; he and Hugh both know where this ends, but that doesn't mean they don't both enjoy taking some time getting there. "Don't make me get out the safe-word."

"Sorry." Hugh looks genuinely contrite. For about two and a half seconds. Then the predatory smile comes back, and he leans in again, slides his hand underneath Trent's shirt and starts tugging at his belt buckle. "Let me see if I can make it up to you."

As he works, Hugh's fingers brush against Trent's cock through his jeans; Trent hisses and arches forward involuntarily. He's hard already, has been since Hugh slid that stupid penny along the table. "Once again," he manages, "your lines need some serious work, man."

"That's twice," Hugh parrots. "So I need lines now with you? Is that how it's gonna be?" His head is cocked, his lips quirked in the patented rockstar smirk that Trent's seen him practice in the mirror dozens of times. But there's also the slightest ripple of uncertainty underneath the bravado, like maybe Hugh's not completely sure where this ends after all. And something constricts in Trent's chest, because there are jokes and there are games and there's good old-fashioned bullshit, but at the end of the day, groupies or no groupies, bedroom or streetcar, he wants to give Hugh every ounce of honesty he can muster.

"No," he says quickly. "'Course not." He tangles one hand in Hugh's hair, feeling the crunch of hairspray as he pulls him in for a kiss. Hugh kisses like he does pretty much everything, like it's the most important thing he could possibly be doing at that moment, like his life depends on it. Trent braces himself against the wall and feeds all that energy and focus right back, like he doesn't do pretty much anything, unless he's playing, the guitar solid and true in his hands, making it scream all the things he can't say.

Eventually, Hugh shoves back a bit, breathing hard into the narrow space between them. "You sure?" he asks, and now it's clear from the set of his shoulders that he _is_ just going through the motions, the last sweet bite of delay before the inevitable.

"I dunno," Trent answers. Between the kiss and the look on Hugh's face, he's a little light-headed, himself. "You gonna ditch me to become the lead singer of some shitty grunge band?" And it's stupid, given what he's spent the past few minutes—few years, actually—doing, but he's surprised to realize that even though he already knows the answer, part of him wants to hear it anyway.

Hugh tilts forward until his forehead is resting against Trent's. "No. 'Course not."

"Okay." Trent's pulse is starting to pound underneath his skin; he takes the opportunity to fill his lungs with air, like he's about to dive underwater. "Then are we gonna do this, or what?"

Challenging Hugh is always some degree of unpredictable, and from the gleam in Hugh's eye, Trent has to wonder if indecent exposure is going to be the end or just the beginning of their list of transgressions for the night. But Hugh only says, "I fucking love you, you know that?" and grabs Trent around the back of the neck, sealing their mouths together.

Which is where the extra oxygen comes in handy, because it means Trent doesn't have to worry about stupid shit like breathing and can focus instead on Hugh's tongue hungrily mapping the inside of his mouth, and on angling his pelvis so that Hugh can work his zipper down with one hand. Just as Hugh's palm starts to slide along Trent's exposed stomach, there's a thump against the door at the top of the stairs, and Trent's heart jumps like a rabbit against his ribs. But the door stays closed, and Trent's a little freaked out but a lot turned on, so he closes his eyes, concentrating on the heat of Hugh's body against him.

Just as the touch below his belt is getting really interesting, though, it disappears completely, and Trent's eyes snap open again, an objection tangled in his throat. Hugh's got his hand halfway to his mouth and his tongue already wet and waiting, but as tempting a prospect as that is, Trent wants this fast, wants it _now_.

"Here," he says, digging a packet of lube out of his jacket pocket.

Hugh raises an eyebrow. "You had that the whole time? You realize this is going to make it difficult to believe your fucking token resistance in the future."

"Resistance is futile," Trent replies solemnly. 

Hugh's laugh bursts out of him like a firecracker. "Glad we're on the same page." He tears the packet open with his teeth and dribbles the lube into his palm; Trent's cock twitches at the sight, and it's an effort to keep his hips still while Hugh takes his sweet fucking time with the process. Or sweet _non_ -fucking time, more accurately, and Trent's just about to share that particular insight when Hugh wraps his hand around Trent's cock and anything Trent might have been planning to say vanishes into an incoherent moan.

_"Mmm,"_ Hugh rumbles in his ear. "Fuck, you feel so good. Been wanting to do this all night." He starts with slow, measured strokes, but that doesn't last long—he speeds up just like he always does with no external rhythm to ground him, and for once, Trent has no objection to that whatsoever. Hugh's rings are cool against the heat of Trent's dick, defining each slide with contrast. Trent leans hard against Hugh's shoulder, anchoring himself while the rest of his world goes blurry. At this rate, he's gonna be—

The door bangs open at the top of the stairs, and adrenaline spikes in Trent's already-overworked system. 

Hugh's hand barely even slows. "Hey," he says over his shoulder, as the guy silhouetted in the doorframe—ripped jeans, plaid shirt, fake leather motorcycle jacket—stares at them, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed. "Can we get a little fucking privacy here, please? Jesus."

The guy blinks, and Hugh does something with his hand that sends a jolt of pleasure from Trent's dick to each and every one of his nerve endings, like the time he shocked himself fixing a light-switch and immediately wanted to do it again. He sucks in air and knows, distantly, that at some point he's going to be embarrassed about this, but right now it's so good it almost hurts, riding the sharp edge of exhilaration. 

"Hey, man," he grates out, and he sounds like he's been chain-smoking for weeks on end. "Not..." He gasps as Hugh does that twist with his hand again. "Not a free show."

Hugh's rhythm does falter at that, and his eyelids flutter shut, teeth closing briefly over his bottom lip. Trent grins, power humming through him like a perfect chord, and curls his hand in Hugh's belt to yank him closer. "Don't stop." A hoarse whisper is all he can muster, but it seems to go through Hugh's body like a shout; Trent can feel the reflection of it against his own skin, all the charge of feedback without the noise.

"I'm not drunk enough for this," the guy at the top of the stairs decides abruptly, and stumbles backward out the door.

Shaky with relief and want and something near hysterical laughter, Trent lets his head fall forward onto Hugh's shoulder as soon as the door thuds closed. Hugh chuckles low and warm in his ear.

"Well, Trent fucking Carr, secret exhibitionist." He sounds inordinately pleased. "Guess I'm rubbing off on you."

"What else is new?" Trent asks into his shoulder, somehow finding the balance to shift his hip a little where Hugh's started rutting against it as he jacks Trent harder, faster.

Hugh's groan rolls over into a laugh. "Touche."

"They're—oh _fuck_ —never gonna let us drink here again," Trent feels compelled to point out, one final fleeting salute to rational thought.

"Worth it," Hugh answers immediately. His breaths are coming heavier against Trent's cheek, his consonants sharper. Hugh doesn't slur when he gets turned on—he enunciates. Trent learned that one the fun way, one night when Hugh pronounced every word of Tweeter like a fucking elocution teacher, then came offstage, shoved Trent down in a pile of blankets and power cords, and sucked him off in about three minutes flat. Trent shudders at the memory; he can almost feel his brain cells shutting down, sensory overload. He thumps his head against the wall again and thrusts forward into Hugh's hand.

Hugh hums appreciatively. "Yeah, that's it," he breathes. "So fucking hot. I wish you could see yourself, all spread out for me. I want everyone to see you, see us, see what you do to me." 

"Hugh," is all Trent can manage. "I— _ah_ …" He's never been all that great with words, and he's sure as hell not now, with everything in him buzzing like a lightning rod in a storm. But that doesn't matter, it's never mattered, not to Hugh—Hugh who makes everyone fall in love with him, who never met a spotlight he couldn't fill, but who wants to share his band and his bed and his bullshit with Trent, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. And that's why Trent's always going to argue that the shy thing works for him, because he's got Hugh, and what the hell more could he ask for than that?

"You and me," Hugh's saying, "I fucking swear, Trent, no matter what, you and me—"

"Yes," Trent gasps. "Yes." He tilts his head until he can get Hugh's earring in his teeth, cold tang of metal against his tongue as he bites down, just as hard as Hugh likes it.

_"Fuck,"_ Hugh hisses, rhythm stuttering against Trent's hip, and the involuntary clench of his hand tips Trent over the edge; he comes with _love you, love you, fucking love you_ ringing in his ears, like he plugged his heart into an amp with Hugh's voice on the other end, and he can't breathe and Hugh's shuddering against him and it's perfect, it's everything. 

Of course, some indeterminate, afterglow-hazed span of seconds later, he looks down and realizes that perfection is a lot messier than he'd really stopped to consider.

"Fuck," he observes distantly, savoring the last few beats before his brain actually kicks in again.

"Yeah, nice shootin', Tex," Hugh mumbles. His mouth is mashed against Trent's collarbone, his hand still curved companionably around Trent's softening dick.

"C'mon." Trent nudges Hugh gently toward upright. "Before that guy from earlier decides to report us to the proper authorities."

"Never happen," Hugh yawns, clearly caught in the easy, pliable post-performance state that sometimes lasts as long as forty-seven minutes before he's back to his typical relentless energy. "Guy like that? Afraid of being a fag by association."

Trent snickers. "His loss." 

"Mmm-hmm," Hugh agrees, closing his teeth briefly around the curve of Trent's jaw.

Stumbling, they decamp to the washroom to attempt to make themselves presentable. Underwear in the garbage—Trent manages to talk Hugh out of draping them over the urinal like flags—is the easy part, and Hugh's wearing an excessive number of mismatched layers, as usual, so all he has to do is take off his vest and he can at least pass long enough to get home. Trent, on the other hand, is only wearing a couple of layers, like a normal person, meaning that he has to rinse out the bottom part of his t-shirt in the sink, while Hugh leans against the outer stall and offers running commentary on the distance, trajectory, and quantity of the current jizz, as well as comparisons to jizzes past, peppered with occasional reflections on whether Trent's shirt is actually worth saving. Trent ends up spending way more time on the process than is strictly necessary, just to keep the debate going, and by the time he's finally done, they're both laughing so hard they can barely talk. 

As Trent chucks the last of the paper towels into the wastebin, Hugh grabs him and zips up his jacket for him to hide the wet spot, and even straightens his lapels with deliberate care. "See? Beautiful. Though I still say the Great Lamp Incident of '89 was your best shot."

Trent grins and shakes his head. "Bed next time. Seriously. For once."

"Sure." Hugh makes a show of checking his watch. "Forty-five minutes to get back to your place… that should be about right."

"You have a serious impulse control problem," Trent tells him fondly.

"Hey. You're my only good vice," Hugh answers, and his tone is light but he's looking Trent right in the eye, with a depth of sincerity that would be terrifying if Trent didn't feel exactly the same way himself.

Trent clears his throat. "Well," he says finally. "There is that back seat on the streetcar…" and Hugh's laugh is the best melody he's ever heard.


End file.
